The Irish Duchess (13 page)

Neville sent a footman in search of Fiona and idled his time in the front parlor, admiring the colors of the trees in the park across the street. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d admired the color of trees. An image of Fiona in her tight-fitting green habit, her long auburn hair streaming behind her as she raced her mare beneath those trees, rose in his mind’s eye and so captivated him that he barely heard her enter the room.

“You sent for me?” Fiona asked coldly, forcing Neville to swing around and greet his mental vision in the cold light of day.

She exceeded even his wildest dreams. Apparently prepared for this visit, she wore her copper curls in a tight knot at the back of her head, but wisps still escaped about her face, softening the severe image she meant to present. Nothing could disguise the long-lashed wide eyes glaring at him from behind rose-tinted cheekbones, or the determined jut of her little chin. A ribbon of amusement curled through him as he realized she had prepared her defense before he’d said a word.

In the interest of scientific experiment, Neville dropped his gaze to the high-necked bodice of her woolen gown. Even the ghastly brown and the loose design couldn’t disguise the magnificence of her feminine curves. He’d had women of all shapes and sizes, yet had never much noted their differences before now. It was Fiona who held his fascination, but she wouldn’t understand that. So he ogled her blatantly and waited for her temper to strike.

As predictable as the sun rising in the morn, her hand swung up to slap him, and he had her. Capturing those long, slender fingers, Neville brought them to his lips and kissed them.

Startled, she froze.

He had little knowledge of the gallantries that wooed and won women, but he instinctively understood Fiona. He had to stay one step ahead of her at all times, know her responses, and keep her off balance. That didn’t mean he would come out ahead, but it at least gave him a fair chance.

“I’ve come to apologize for embarrassing you,” he murmured, keeping her hand in his, relying on their proximity to have the same effect as it had last night. He was almost ten years older than Fiona and gave himself credit for a little more experience. He didn’t think he’d mistaken her passionate response. If he had, now was the time to discover it. They had naught else in common but this physical attraction and must build a marriage from some foundation. “I shan’t apologize for what I did,” he added tauntingly.

Some women might have wide green pools for eyes, but Fiona’s leapt with flames that would consume him. Neville wanted to pull her into his arms again, but his hastiness had led to disaster last night.

Dark lashes fell, and she looked away, attempting to shake his hand in an effort to escape. “I understand. It’s quite all right.”

Neville couldn’t recall ever seeing her embarrassed before. “Was it? Quite all right, I mean.” Amused, he couldn’t resist asking.

She sent him an uncertain, vaguely rebellious look. “Was what quite all right?”

“My kisses,” he persisted. “How did they compare to those of others?”

He relaxed as he saw her uncertainty begin to fade. He didn’t want her uncertain. He wanted his fiery fairy with him in the room.

“It’s not quite the same compared with stolen kisses from grimy little boys behind the hedgerows, my lord duke,” she protested.

Pleased that she was as inexperienced as he’d thought, Neville goaded her further. “Might I presume my kisses were better?”

She curled her fingers into fists and stamped her foot. “Quit playing cat and mouse with me, sir. If you have some reason for this game, spit it out and have done with it. It wasn’t my fault that you were humiliated last night, so you needn’t torture me to get even.”

“No, I’d not torture you.” He ran his finger across her cheek, finding it as soft as the orchids he raised, yet blooming in a more magnificent color. He wasn’t one for complaining about his plight. She would have made a marvelous mistress. She would make a terrible wife. Still, he’d spent all his life accepting responsibility. He’d live with what he’d done. “Or perhaps, I will, just a little. Marriage to a dry stick like me will not be so interesting as racing about the Irish countryside, but will surely be better than marriage to an old man like Bennet, won’t it?”

Neville thought she stopped breathing. With interest, he lowered his gaze to see if her bosom continued rising and falling. He wanted to unbutton all those damned tiny jet buttons and explore more thoroughly, but that could wait. Not for long, perhaps, given his body’s response to his mental images, but for a while.

“I’m not a piece of legislation you may examine and take apart and do with as you will,” Fiona said coldly.

“And I’m not blind, deaf, or stupid, either,” Neville said without ire. “I know you’re a hoyden who will turn me gray before my time, but we must be practical about this, and admit that neither of us would disappoint Michael or Blanche. We could do far worse than each other.”

That stopped her tongue, and he chalked a point in his favor. Maybe several points. He didn’t think he’d ever heard anyone stop Fiona’s tongue before. “I’m not a rich man, but I know where I can find a loom at a decent price. I cannot think your orphans will fare well with only an elderly grandmother to look after them, but if you can find someone willing to take them, I’ll see that they’re fed and clothed. I cannot promise more than that, but that’s more than you would have out of any other husband you found.”

“And what do you expect of me in return?” Fiona asked with the uncertainty he’d heard in her voice earlier.

“Heirs,” Neville said bluntly. “I want heirs aplenty, and a wife in my bed whenever I want.”

He knew he would have shocked any other woman, but not Fiona. He read the blaze of interest in her eyes, knew the devious workings of her mind, and bent them to his own purposes. He rather liked being in control of the situation for once. He more than liked not having to wield foolish romantic phrases to get what he wanted.

Without waiting for an answer, Neville pulled Fiona into his arms as he’d wanted to do from the moment she’d walked into the room. Instead of the finality of a parson’s trap, the sweet bliss of freedom wrapped around him with the slide of her arms around his shoulders and the return of his kiss with the same reckless hunger that rocked him.

Just for once in his life, Neville damned duty to hell and took his pleasure where he could.

The sensation of freedom swept through Neville as he cupped Fiona’s breast in his palm. He nearly came undone when she rewarded him with her moan of pleasure. He might have taken her there and then, putting the seal of certainty on their union, had a knock on the door not jarred him to his senses.

Michael’s wry expression when he came upon them tumbled and breathing hard sealed their promise just as certainly.

“Dare I suggest a short betrothal?”

Catching Fiona’s hand before she could twist away, Neville agreed with alacrity. “I’ll have the license in the morning. Name the date.”

Beside him, Fiona moaned and covered her mouth with her hand. Neville would have her well shackled before she realized what she did. He wouldn’t give her time to regret her decision. He’d waited years to choose a wife. Now that the choice was made for him, he wouldn’t wait a day longer than necessary.

He’d found his duchess. She wasn’t an heiress, but she was the woman he wanted. For the first time in a long time, his duty took him down a path that matched his desires.

Thirteen

Now that some distance separated her from the duke, Fiona almost wished she were back in his arms again, blinded with lust so she needn’t think about what they’d just done. What in the name of the Holy Mother was she thinking? She despised Englishmen. She despised this particular Englishman. She despised his arrogance, his title, everything for which he stood.

But he had kissed her into senselessness. Like a silly infatuated girl, she’d let him lead her down the proverbial garden path. Her stomach quaked as she realized the duke and Michael and Blanche were even now discussing her
wedding
date.

Neville sent her another one of his blasted amused looks that melted her knees. She’d heard other people accuse him of being a dry stick, but they obviously didn’t understand his warped sense of humor. He was laughing at them all right now, laughing at the whole humiliating situation, laughing as he stuck his head through the noose. Damn the man and his laughing eyes to hell.

“I...I thought a Christmas wedding would be nicer,” Fiona said tentatively into a momentary pause in the conversation. She’d never said anything tentatively in her life. Already he was sapping her will and independence.

Blanche looked interested, but Michael and Neville grinned and shook their heads.

“She’s panicking already,” Neville said, catching Fiona’s hand and drawing her closer. “We must do the deed quickly, before she realizes what she’s done.”

Fiona tried to jerk her hand away, but Neville’s fingers simply tightened their hold. Under other circumstances, she might have found his strength reassuring. Right now, panic held her in thrall. She’d barely even considered
marriage
. She’d certainly never considered marriage to a duke. A duke! A bloody duke! She’d be a
duchess
.

The unholy incongruity spun Fiona’s head. As if recognizing her sudden weakness, Neville led her to a nearby chair—a gold silk chair with delicately carved arms sitting in a pool of sunlight on a beautiful blue and gold woven carpet of exquisite design, all of which belonged to the duke. He owned this house where Blanche and Michael lived. She pressed her fingers to her temple.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t take her to Anglesey until after the wedding,” Neville was saying with amusement still lacing his voice.

“Oh, she’s already seen it,” Blanche replied blithely. “Michael brought her there when we first met.”

Fiona tried to shut out the conversation. Anglesey, the duke’s family seat. She didn’t want to remember when she’d first met Blanche. She’d been garbed in boy’s breeches and looked a grimy urchin. And Anglesey had been a palace. It had frightened her half to death at the time.

“I can’t do it,” she whispered. “I couldn’t even be the scullery maid.”

They ignored her. Plans for the wedding continued without her. Didn’t anyone understand? She’d grown up in a farmhouse, for heaven’s sake! A farmhouse with a muddy front yard and potatoes at every meal. She knew nothing of dukes and duchesses and palaces crawling with servants. What in the name of the devil would she do with herself?

Carry the duke’s heirs. Heat crawled up her scalp, and Fiona buried her face in her hands. She’d sold her soul to become a brood mare.

“Uh oh,” she heard the duke say. “We’re about to experience either a fit or a whirlwind. Blanche, I think you’d better take her upstairs. Michael and I will handle the rest.”

A fit. She would throw a fit just as soon as she recovered enough strength to remember how. And then she would run away.

Fiona looked up and caught the duke’s implacable gaze and knew she was well and truly trapped. He would follow her to the ends of the earth if she ran. The oh-so-proper duke would never allow their indiscretion to go uncorrected. Propriety required marriage, and he would keep his honor at the expense of all else. Devil bother it. Someone should teach him that propriety was meaningless.

It seemed she would have to be the one to do so.

***

“I saw the announcement in the paper,” a shy voice said.

Lingering on the edge of the rout that she hadn’t wanted to attend, Fiona glanced around for the source of the voice.

“I think the two of you will make a lovely couple.”

Fiona pushed aside the leaves of a preposterous tree. Gwyneth sat sipping tea on a sofa hidden by the plant. Slipping through the foliage, Fiona took the space beside her, feeling dwarfed by the other woman now that they were on the same level.

Vaguely remembering the hints that the duke had courted this woman, Fiona wrinkled her brow in puzzlement. “You do? Why?”

Gwyneth smiled shyly. “You’re so vivacious and spirited, you’ll add the part of him that’s missing. I think that’s the way the best marriages are founded.”

Fiona contemplated the notion a moment, discovered the converse side, and would have laughed, if the topic didn’t make her so nervous. “And he’s so stolid and dependable, he’ll add the part of me that’s missing,” she supplied without insult. “I’m not at all certain it works that way.”

She looked at Gwyneth quizzically. “You’re not sorry? I thought you and…”

Gwyneth shook her head vigorously. “I’ll never marry. They only want me for my wealth, and I’d rather keep it for my own projects. Are you still interested in joining our Thursday afternoon gatherings?”

Not if heaven opened up and shot a bolt of lightning down, Fiona vowed, but she hated to insult this awkwardly backward girl.

“It’s not all silly speechifying,” Gwyneth hastily explained, as if understanding Fiona’s hesitation. “We do accomplish a great deal. We’ve set up a foundation for foundlings, you know, and there are those of us working for better living conditions in the tenement slums.”

Fiona didn’t know if the wives of dukes involved themselves in such, but if she must stay in England, she would prefer saving orphans to having teas. She wasn’t convinced that marriage to the duke was inevitable, but until she discovered a means of escape, she would have to behave as if she were truly affianced. She wondered if she could persuade the loom out of Neville before she discovered a bolt hole.

“I’d be interested in helping with worthwhile projects,” Fiona hedged. “But I cannot say how long I’ll be in London. My family is talking of retiring early to the country for the holidays.”

“The duke, too?”

Suspicious of the question but unable to find a way around it, Fiona nodded. “He wishes to show me Anglesey. We’re to be wed there.”

Gwyneth almost seemed to sigh with relief. “Excellent,” she said, before recovering herself and continuing politely, “You must be looking forward to the wedding.”

That was the last thing on earth she was looking forward to, but Fiona held her tongue for a change. A lady who casually discussed murder, if that’s what she’d overheard, was not someone she might confide in. “The duke is like family. I’m certain we’ll rub along well enough.”